“But not the thing, thank God, so long as Sir Seymour Portman keeps about on his dear old pins.”
“You are going to paint Sir Seymour?”
“I am! Think I can do him?”
She looked at him for a moment, and her violet eyes searched him as if to see whether he were worthy. Then she said soberly:
“Yes, Dick.”
“Then let’s turn the damned epitaph with its hole to the wall!”
And he lifted what remained of Arabian’s portrait from the easel and threw it into a dark corner of the studio.
CHAPTER XVIII
One evening, some ten days later, before any rumour of Lady Sellingworth’s new decision had gone about in the world of London, before even Braybrooke knew, on coming home from the Foreign Office Craven found a note lying on the table in the tiny hall of his flat. He picked it up and saw Miss Van Tuyn’s handwriting. He had not seen either her or Lady Sellingworth since the evening when they had met in the Bella Napoli. Both women had come into his life together. And it seemed to him that both had gone out of it together. His acquaintance, or friendship, with them had been a short episode in his pilgrimage, and apparently the episode was definitely over.